Murder for the Halibut (2 page)

“You doing okay, Jordan?” Michael Cafferty slid in beside her at the railing. “You’re
looking a little green.”

She swallowed hard and pointed to the patch. “Rosie insisted I get a prescription
for these suckers before I left for Miami.” She swallowed again when the boat slammed
into another huge wave. “I’m waiting for the magic drug to kick in.”

“Speaking of Rosie, did she and the others get on the
flight okay? I’ve been so busy overseeing this fishing trip I forgot to call Victor.
He’s going to pitch a fit.”

“I talked to her before we left the hotel this morning for Key West. They were at
DFW Airport ready to board their flight. If all goes well, they’ll be waiting for
us in Miami when we get back to shore. You can make nice to Victor over drinks tonight.”
She grinned. It had only been a day since she’d seen her friends, and she already
missed them, especially her next-door-neighbor Victor Rodriguez, Michael’s significant
other.

Jordan took a deep breath as the battle raged between her stomach and the motion of
the boat. “I should’ve never let you talk me into this, Michael. What was I thinking?”

“What? The fishing trip or the whole contest-judging thing?”

“Both.” Jordan’s hand covered her mouth as a wave of nausea pulsed through her. When
it finally passed, she continued. “First of all, I’ll probably be hanging over this
rail all day long. As for the judging, everyone knows I hate fancy food. What made
me think I could pull off a gig judging a bunch of gourmet chefs? Geez, Michael, if
I make it past the whole tasting thing without gagging, it will be a miracle. They’ll
laugh me right off the freakin’ cruise ship.”

When Michael had first suggested she sign on as the culinary expert for the first
ever Caribbean Cook-Off, she should have run away as fast as she could. KTLK, the
local radio station in Ranchero where he had his own talk show, was the primary sponsor
of the contest. Six handpicked chefs from all over Texas would be showing off their
cooking skills as they competed for the grand prize: a contract with one of the biggest
talent agencies in New
York to star in a national ad campaign for a giant food conglomerate. They’d be making
original concoctions using only specified ingredients. The trouble was, to judge the
finished product, Jordan would have to eat it—and she hated gourmet food.

She shook her head. “My newfound fame as culinary reporter for the
Globe
will go right out the window, and I’ll be back to writing the personals again.”

“Quit worrying. You’ll do fine,” Michael said before another wave hit, shoving them
both into the corner. He turned and hollered to the crusty-looking man at the controls,
“How much longer before we actually get to fish?”

“Another ten minutes and we’ll throw out the anchor,” the old man hollered back. “Why?
We got a puker?”

“No,” Jordan said, a little too quickly, resisting the urge to put her hand over her
mouth again.
Like that’s gonna keep me from hurling.
“A tad queasy, that’s all.”

“Have a cold one, lady.” The captain grinned, showing off his gold front tooth. “You’d
be surprised at how much that helps.”

She’d be surprised, all right. Bending farther over the railing just in case her worst
nightmare came true, Jordan took two quick breaths. She’d grown up fishing with her
dad and four brothers, but that had been Lake Amarillo and not the Gulf of Mexico.
The only big waves there had come from the wake of some smart-ass kid on a Jet Ski
brave enough to endure the wrath of the McAllister clan. Usually, a ceremonial display
of six extended middle fingers would offer a “salute” as the offending watercraft
passed.

“Michael, come here,” a voice commanded from the other end of the boat.

“Oops. That’s my boss calling. Hang in there, Jordan. I’ll check back in a bit to
make sure you’re okay.”

Since the cooking competition was the brainchild of his boss, Michael had put in many
hours organizing it. He’d even stayed overnight at the radio station on several occasions
after hosting his show. This was too important to let a little thing like her queasy
stomach sidetrack him.

She gave him a gentle nudge. “Go. This is your baby. I’m already starting to feel
a little better.”

Watching him walk away, Jordan blew out another slow breath before focusing on the
water and the disappearing speck, aka Key West, behind them. What
was
she thinking taking on this assignment as if she had a clue what she was doing? If
her boss at the newspaper knew her tastes leaned toward takeout and fried bologna,
she was pretty sure she’d no longer be the
Globe
’s culinary expert with her own byline.

And she was positive he wouldn’t have agreed to send her on this cruise to judge food
prepared with God-only-knew-what ingredients. Unless her seafood was battered and
came with fries, she wanted nothing to do with it.

Feeling like a fraud, she tried to convince herself she wouldn’t be a complete ditz,
and then decided, so what if she was? Tomorrow, she and her friends would board the
Carnation Queen
and cruise for seven days around the Caribbean. A week of fun in the sun, island
tours, and frozen margaritas.

And everything was gratis. All she had to do was judge one stupid cooking competition.
How hard could that be?

She gulped, remembering again how totally unqualified she was for the culinary gig.
On her first assignment
at the
Globe
, she’d critiqued a fancy steak restaurant and ended up shoving foie gras into her
purse. Unable to make herself take one bite, she’d filled up on sourdough bread and
Chocolate Decadence Cake instead.

So how did a tomboy from West Texas who talked sports better than most men end up
as a celebrity judge for six up-and-coming chefs on a cruise ship? She couldn’t even
cook macaroni and cheese from a box—at least not an edible version.

Asking her to judge fancy food was like soliciting a nun’s advice on the best sexual
positions.

Sheesh!

A hand touched her shoulder, and she nearly jumped overboard. Turning, she came nose
to nose with one of the contestants she’d noticed when they’d boarded the
Sea Shark
in Key West. Even in his playing-on-the-water clothes, Stefano Mancini had been hard
to miss, looking more like an Italian playboy than a guy ready to spend all day fishing
under the hot Florida sun. She remembered the frowning faces of a few of the other
contestants when Stefano had walked aboard the
Sea Shark.
She wondered what that was about. Jealousy, maybe?

With a smile that could only be interpreted as a come-on, the budding chef slipped
both arms around her from behind and grabbed on to the railing, basically imprisoning
her.

And she’d thought being seasick was the worst thing that would happen to her today.

Close enough to give her a whiff of his citrusy cologne, he reached into his shirt
pocket and pulled out a reefer. Arching one eyebrow and grinning like a cat that’d
cornered a mouse, he showed her the rolled cigarette. After
he dropped it back into his pocket, he slid his hand slowly down her arm with a feathery
touch. Totally involuntarily, the fine hairs below her elbow stood at attention.

When he latched on to the railing again, he whispered into her ear, causing another
flurry of goose bumps. “Let’s you and me go hide out and have a few puffs. I guarantee
that will settle your stomach.”

Tilting her head to the left so his warm hot breath would quit causing tingles, she
declined. “No, thanks. I’ll take my chances with the Gulf.” She twisted to get out
of his clutches, but he was too strong.

Her eyes darted to the front of the boat, searching for Michael, but he was busy chatting
with three other contestants and hadn’t seen her distress signals.

“Don’t say I didn’t try.”

She fell backward as the boat hit another rough spot, sending salty seawater splashing
up at her over the railing. Instantly, she knew it was a bad move, and Stefano’s lower
body pressing into her backside verified it. Wiggling, she tried to get out of the
embrace, which seemed to only add to his enjoyment.

It’s official. I’m a bona fide perv magnet.

“Sorry about that last big one,” the captain apologized. “Get your gear ready. We’re
almost to the spot I like to call ‘Come to Mama.’”

This time Jordan pushed back hard enough to break Stefano’s hold on the railing and
darted out of his reach.

“A feisty one. I like that.”

“You do know I’m a judge, right?”

He tilted his head and grinned, giving her another dazzling show of perfect white
teeth. “All the better.”

The whole idea behind this fishing trip was so the contestants could get to know each
other. As a bonus, anyone who caught enough fish to feed the three judges and twenty-five
lucky tasters would automatically receive an extra ten points. Since one of the chefs
would be eliminated after the first round, the extra points could prove invaluable.

“Shouldn’t you be getting your pole ready so the others don’t get a leg up on you?”

Stefano laughed out loud. “Darling, do you seriously think I need the points?” He
winked.

Geez! Who is this guy?
“How would I know what you need? I only met you three hours ago.”

She moved away when he inched closer to whisper in her ear.

“Trust me. I don’t need the points. Not for the elimination round tomorrow or any
other time.” He pointed toward the others. “Some of those losers couldn’t beat me
with a hundred-point advantage.”

“Pretty cocky, don’t you think?”

Jordan took a moment to study him. She was five eight, and Stefano towered over her,
looking more like an athletic trainer than a man who spent hours in the kitchen creating
five-star meals. In cargo shorts and a green and blue muscle shirt, he was what Jordan
classified as serious eye candy. Curly dark hair that fell to his shoulders accentuated
his smoky brown eyes and angled cheekbones. He probably used the playful matching
dimples on either side of his generous mouth as a beacon to lure unsuspecting females.

Quickly, she looked away, reminding herself she
already had a drop-dead gorgeous Italian Stallion who could lure her in anytime he
wanted. Unfortunately, he was deep undercover fighting drug dealers in El Paso.

Her overt attempt to put distance between her and Stefano didn’t seem to bother the
guy. He arched an eyebrow, as if reminding her he always got what he wanted.

“I’m cooking my signature halibut dish tomorrow, and I guarantee you won’t have to
think twice about who’s the best chef here.”

“If you’re as good as you think you are, why not throw out a line and get fresh halibut?
You never know when those points might come in handy.”

A how-stupid-are-you look crossed his face. “Halibut like cold water. They’re fished
in places like Alaska, not in the Gulf. I made sure everything I needed was sent via
overnight delivery when I heard about tomorrow’s little show.” He straightened two
fingers to give her another peek at the cigarette back in his hand. “Until then, I
have some free time, and the concierge is hooking me up with the good stuff. Tonight
could be the night you and I really get to know each other.”

“Hey, Stefano.”

Both Jordan and Stefano turned to see a much smaller man approach, sporting a gray
fisherman’s vest and a Yankees ball cap. About five seven, the newcomer had jet-black
hair with matching eyes.

“I snagged the best rod for you. Come on.”

“No can do, Phillip. I’m gonna hang out with—” He turned toward Jordan. “What did
you say your name was?”

“Jordan McAllister,” Phillip answered, sending daggers her way before turning his
attention back to Stefano.
“You don’t have to fish, but let’s grab a couple of beers while you watch me reel
them in.” He moved closer to whisper, “Beating you tomorrow will require all the extra
points I can get.”

Before Stefano could open his mouth to reply, Phillip tugged on his arm, but he couldn’t
budge the bigger man. “I told everyone you’d tell us a few of your funny stories about
working with Dean Sterling at the Palace Hotel.”

Being the center of attention must have appealed to Stefano because he shrugged and
allowed Phillip to drag him over to where the others were getting ready to throw out
their lines.

“I’m looking forward to seeing you later, Jordan,” he said over his shoulder.

Like that’s ever gonna happen in this lifetime.

Finally alone, Jordan discovered that while she’d been bantering with Stefano, the
nausea had disappeared, and she was beginning to feel a little mellow. Rosie had warned
her that the patch contained a drug that made you feel like you were floating in the
clouds.

Truth be told, it wasn’t an entirely bad feeling. Without her precious Ho Hos, she
needed all the help she could get today. The chocolate treat from Hostess was the
only thing that calmed her down when she was stressed. She’d read that chocolate elevated
endorphin levels, but she didn’t need some scientist sitting in a lab somewhere to
convince her of that. Usually, all it took was one chocolate “Prozac” to talk herself
off the ledge—two to guarantee it.

Staring out at the water, she watched the blue waves ripple and gleam, and her eyelids
suddenly felt heavy, as if a great weight were pulling them shut. She’d kill for a
comfy recliner right now. Smiling to herself, she was even starting to think judging
the cooking contest wouldn’t be so bad.

“Jordan, I want to introduce you to the contestants,” Michael called out, splattering
her bubble of self-confidence like a water balloon thrown from a second-story window.

She put on her game face and headed in his direction, certain the chefs would sniff
out a fast-food queen from a mile away.

“You feeling better?”

“Much.”

“Good.” Michael slipped his arm in hers and dragged her over to a fortyish-looking
man dressed in yellow Nike shorts and a matching shirt. A second look verified his
baseball cap, shoes, and watch were all color coordinated—bright lemon.